' Jack Sheppard's library consisted of a few ragged and well-thumbed volumes abstracted from the tremendous chronicles bequeathed to the world by those Froissarts and Holinsheds of crime —the Ordinaries of Newgate. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. ’ Jack Kimble took a deep breath. Seeing the footman about to follow her in, Gerald clamped a hand onto his shoulder. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. “I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica; “I think I am. The Ragged Edge.
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